Drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine, Or leave a kiss within the cup, And I'll not ask for wine: The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine, But might I of Love's nectar sip, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much hon'ring thee, As giving it a hope that there, It could not wither'd be: But thou thereon did'st only breath, And sent it back to me, Since when it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee.